Come ower here! he shouted again.
He wasnt kidding. Yeh. Peter licked his lips. He glanced sideways, the body there and still prone; Robertson seemed not to have noticed it yet. He glanced back at him and discovered his feet moving, dragging him across the road. Who was moving his fucking feet. He wasnt, it had to be someone in the prime position.
The gaffer was staring at him.
I’m sorry, said Peter.
It doesni matter about fucking sorry man you shouldni have left the job.
I had to go a place.
You had to go a place. . mmhh; is that what you want on record?
Aye.
The gaffer grinned: You’ve been fun out and that’s that.
As long as you put it on record.
Ah Peter Peter, so that’s you at last, fucking out the door. It’s taken a while, but we knew we’d get ye.
You did.
We did, aye, true, true true true, aye, we knew you’d err. So, you better collect the tab frae the office this afternoon.
Peter gazed at him, he smiled. Collect my tab?
Yes, you’re finished, all fucking washed up, a jellyfish on the beach, you’re done, you’re in the process of evaporating. The gaffer chuckled. Your services, for what they’re worth, are no longer in demand by the fathers of the city.
That’s excellent news. I can retire and grow exotic plants out my window boxes.
You can do whatever the fuck you like son.
Ah, the son, I see. But Guiseppe you’re forgetting, as a free man, an ordinary civilian, I can kick fuck out you and it’ll no be a dismissable offence against company property.
Jovial, very jovial. And obviously if that’s your wish then I’m the man, I’m game, know what I mean, game, anywhere you like Peter it’s nomination time.
The two of them stared at each other. Here we have a straightforward hierarchy. Joe Robertson the gaffer and Peter the sweeper.
Fuck you and your services, muttered Peter and thereby lost the war. This was the job gone. Or was it, maybe it was just a battle: Look, said Peter, I’ve no even been the place yet I was just bloody going, I’ve no even got there.
You were just bloody going!
Aye.
You’ve been off the job an hour.
An hour? Who fucking telt ye that?
Never you mind.
There’s a guy lying ower there man he’s out the game.
So what?
I just bloody saved his life!
Robertson grinned and shook his head: Is that a fact!
That means I’ve just to leave him there?
Your job’s taking care of the streets, he’s on the fucking pavement.
Mmhh, I see.
It was on the streets, past tense.
Aw for fuck sake man look I’m sorry! And that was as far as he was going with this charade, no more, no more.
It doesni fucking matter about sorry, it’s too late.
It’ll no happen again yr honour. . Peter attempted a smile, a moment later he watched the gaffer leave, his bowly swagger, taking a smoke from his pocket and lighting it as he went. Death. The latest legislation. Death. Death death death. Death. Capital d e a
He continued to watch the gaffer until he turned the corner of Moir Street.
Well there were other kinds of work. They were needing sellers of a variety of stuff at primary-school gates. That was a wheeze. Why didnt he get in on that. My god, it was the coming thing. Then with a bit of luck he could branch out on his own and from there who knows, the whole of the world was available. Peter cracked himself on the back of the skull with such venomous force Aouch that he nearly knocked it off Aouch he staggered a pace, dropped his brush and clutched his head. O for fuck sake christ almighty but it was sore. He recovered, stopped to retrieve the brush.
It was bloody sore but christ that was stupid, bloody stupid thing to do, fucking eedjit — next thing he would be cutting bits out his body with a sharp pointed knife, self-mutiliation, that other saviour of the working classes. O christ but the head was still nipping! My god, different if it knocked some sense into the brains but did it did it fuck.
Who had shopped him? Somebody must have. Guiseppe wouldni have been so cocky otherwise. One of the team had sold him out for a pocket of shekels; that’s the fucking system boy no more street-sweeping for you. Yes boy hey, he could do anything he liked. Peter smiled and shook his head. He glanced upwards at the heavy grey clouds. He felt like putting on a shirt and tie and the good suit, and get Carol, and off they would go to a nightclub, out wining and dining the morning away. He liked nightshift. Nightshift! It was a beautiful experience. My god Robertson I’d love to fucking do you in boy that’s what I would fucking like. But he had no money and he was eighteen years short of the pension. And he was not to lose control. That was all he needed. The whole of life was out to get you. There’s a sentence. But it’s true, true, the whole of life. Who had shopped him but for fuck sake what dirty bastirt had done the dirty, stuck the evil eye on him, told fucking Robertson the likely route. Och, dear. I had a dream, I had a dream, and in this dream a man was free and could walk tall, he could walk tall, discard the brush and hold up the head, straightened shoulders and self-respect:
the guy was still lying there.
Ohhh. A whisky would be nice, a wee dram. Peter carried a hipflask on occasion but not tonight, he didnt have it tonight. Ohhh. He paused, he stared over the road, seeing the guy in that selfsame position. Perhaps he was dead, perhaps he had died during the tiff with the gaffer. Poor bastard, what was his story, we’ve all got them, we’ve all got them.
Morning has bro-ken.
Margaret’s away somewhere
Of course Margaret wasnt the sort of woman you trusted. She had that way of looking at you as if she was wondering how she was going to con you this time and if she could just take it for granted she would get away with it or else did she have to work out methods of escape afterwards. It put you on your guard. And I mean everybody, even the paperboy or the milkboy, when they came to collect the money at the end of the week, they were wary as well. You couldnt help watching her. Even if you were talking to somebody else, if you were standing somewhere where she was, if you were talking to somebody, in the post office for instance, you were always watching her at the same time, so that your eyes might meet and she could go surprised, a bit taken aback, as if she was having to think to herself ‘Did he see me there?’ but then she would give a wee self-possessed smile and you would give her one back. It was funny the way she managed it, because the truth is she would have won as far as that particular exchange is concerned. And if ever she had to actually say something it would nearly always be a ‘What was that?’ and this made you know she hadnt been listening to a word you said, this because she rated you so low there was nothing at all you could say would ever interest her, whereas probably you thought she had been waiting for you to speak to her all the time. It wasnt easy being in her company and you were always glad to see the back of her, I mean relieved. But it didnt dawn on me she had disappeared till a long time after — I mean when you told me about it, about how she hadnt been around for a while, it hadnt dawned on me.
A Memory
O mirs! And a slice of square sausage please!
Beg pardon?
I squinted at her. A slice of square sausage — she didnt have any idea what I was rabbiting on about. A piece of absentmindedness, I had forgotten I was in fucking England. But too late now and impossible to pretend I only said ‘sausage’ and that maybe she had misheard the first bit, something to do with ‘air’ or ‘bare’ maybe, ‘scare’, ‘fare’ — sausages are excellent fare I could have said but structured as excellent fare sausages, although the strange syntax would probably have thrown her.